


third boxcar, midnight train

by fab_ia



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Gun Violence, bad guy road trips, jacobi's in charge of music which maxwell disagrees with, kepler is designated driver, the evil trio go to ihop and have breakfast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_ia/pseuds/fab_ia
Summary: kepler likes driving, whenever the three of you are on the road- you're fairly certain he just never wants to leave the two of you in charge of anything to do with travel, because you can't book a hotel to save your life and maxwell doesn't believe in speed limits.plus, not being told you have a mission; ihop; and a glass against half a bottle.





	third boxcar, midnight train

there’s a thing about kepler, and the thing is, you don’t get him. you feel like maxwell and you should both be slightly more scared of him than you are, but he- when he’s in a good mood, he _relaxes_. makes dinner, tells awful jokes, lets the two of you force him to sit through reruns of old, shitty sitcoms from the 90s.

you’re grinning again as you think about nights like that on a stupidly hot night in a car driving down a too-long road with maxwell asleep in the backseat, headphones on with music leaking out, and your music coming from the speaker because you’d convinced kepler to give you control over that about an hour into the drive. it’s entirely possible that it was to get you to shut the hell up and stop distracting him, but it’s not like it matters how you get the victory. what matters is, you won and he hasn’t complained once.

“what’s this one called?” he asks, voice softer than you’ve ever known it to be. he’s probably trying not to wake maxwell, but the romantic in you dares to dream that it might be in an attempt to keep the twilight spell, the heavy weight of the summer night with the mosquitos and distant crickets. the other cars in the distance, the ones with places to be- this road trip is just that. a trip, a short journey, no more to it.

“you know this one,” you say with a grin, unable to stop it from spreading across your face. “it’s queen, you like queen.”

“i do,” he says. when you glance over, he’s smiling too, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the rhythm as he indicates and pulls over into the parking lot of a motel that’s almost certainly seen better, busier days.

 

it is summer, which isn’t a season you usually like because of memories- ones of beaches and shorts and sand scraping your skin- but this one, you find that you don’t mind it. kepler leaves you to wake maxwell and you do, nudging her shoulder gently and laughing when she mumbles a curse and tries to go back to sleep.

 

“i’ll carry you if i have to,” you warn.

 

she gets up eventually, not confident in your ability to manage her weight as well as that of the luggage you’ve offered to drag to the door with you. one suitcase, one bag over your shoulder, one backpack that’s got grenades in the bottom and a pistol in it somewhere, along with a pack of hair ties and old, broken pens. you take maxwell’s laptop bag, too, when she looks like she’s about to collapse on the ground and sleep there.

 

kepler tuts when he sees her, but helps her into the room and into the bed- she sleeps on one side and you sleep in the middle, kepler behind you. it’s just a thing, a thing you’ve always done when there’s one bed in a room and none of you trust that the couch doesn’t have six different diseases in it. not that there’s even a couch in this room, but it was cheap and the owner let you pay in cash.

 

“you tired?” you ask kepler. he’s been driving for the better part of the day, besides when you had to pull over to grab dinner, and by all rights he should be exhausted but he just shakes his head. he sits on the ground instead of in the seat at the table and gestures to it, which you suppose is an invitation for you to sit.

 

“not really,” he says. “could do with a drink, if i’m honest. you want a drink, jacobi?”

 

“sure,” you say. “what the hell, go ahead.”

 

kepler stands, looking more than a little pleased with himself as he fetches two glasses and retrieves the bottle of whiskey that he’d apparently added to your backpack at some point. it’s not as expensive as usual, looking more like something you could pick up at any liquor store instead of malted, long-aged scotch.

 

“cheap?” you ask. kepler shrugs.

 

“whiskey’s whiskey.”

 

 _well._ you can’t exactly argue with that, can you?

 

you take a sip from the glass he holds out to you and it burns your throat on the way down but that’s okay, you don’t mind that. it makes you feel less on edge, less like there’s been a knife held against your throat for a few hours. in short, it makes you relax.

 

looking at kepler, thinking about things, you wonder how much of the blood in his body has been replaced by the amber liquid at this point. you find that you also don’t really give all that much of a damn if he bleeds red or liquid gold, so long as he’s still human down at his core. carve him down, take off the mask he wears every day and maybe you’ll get a glimpse of who he really is.

 

“don’t stare at me,” he huffs, already pouring himself another glass. “you’re terrible at being analytical, maxwell smokes you at it.”

 

“smoke?” you frown.

 

“nevermind.”

 

it makes you laugh, almost, the way he looks a little disappointed that you didn’t really catch his point. if he looked like that every time you didn’t understand him, you think, you’d’ve never seen him smile in your life which would be a crying shame.

 

he’s hot. whatever.

 

you get through a glass and kepler gets though half the bottle before he decides it’s time you made an attempt at getting to sleep so you strip off your jeans, leave them on the ground and slide into bed, wait for kepler’s familiar warmth to appear behind you and envelop you. kepler falls asleep quickly, breath coming hot and heavy on the back of your neck. your own breaths are shorter, but maxwell’s match his almost perfectly, a little out of sync on the inhales as kepler’s lungs (slightly shittier than either yours or maxwell’s) take in air slower than they expel it.

 

it’s probably weird that you’re so well acquainted with his breathing patterns, but you don’t even care all that much. not when you know yourself that you’re halfway to sleep, one of kepler’s legs between yours as his exhales ruffle the hair at the base of your skull.

* * *

 

morning comes when maxwell elbows you in the stomach, muttering a “sorry” as she does. you glare anyway and kepler mumbles something in his sleep, fidgeting slightly. it’s always jarring, the fact he’s a restless sleeper- he seems like the type who would sleep stock-still like a stick, flat on his back with his arms pinned by his side. but no, the man’s a goddamn furnace who shifts and occasionally talks in his sleep. he doesn’t snore, though.

 

“he brought whiskey?” maxwell frowns, sliding out of bed carefully, managing not to knock kepler’s legs. shrugging, you follow her lead, but instead of heading straight for the coffee machine you go to the suitcase and open it up, wondering what the three of you had actually packed, in the end. or, really, what _kepler_ had packed.

 

looking down at the neatly folded and organised clothes, you have no idea who anything belongs to except for the black jeans with the badly-sewn on bomb patch that you snatch up- those are yours. you toss maxwell a flannel you’re fairly certain was originally yours anyway, but you’ve got the hoodie you draped over the back of a chair. you grab a shirt for yourself- led zeppelin, yep, yours- and boxers, socks, whatever else.

 

you spend half an hour in the bathroom because you have a shower as well, washing off the feeling that the alcohol from the night before has left in a cavity in your chest. you don’t like drinking all that much, not anymore. not since you managed to get your shit together and act like a professional instead of the depressed fuck-up you are, deep below whatever facade you display to anyone around you.

 

you get your shit together and emerge just in time to see kepler waking up. he looks up at the ceiling for a moment in quiet contemplation before he sighs and sits up. he glances over, grins at you and maxwell (you’re leaning on her shoulder in an attempt to read whatever coding crap she’s working on because it’s nerd stuff you’ll never get, but you like watching her work).

 

“morning,” he says through a yawn, abruptly looking horrified that his body would _dare_ to break the calm, controlled exterior he has. you laugh and he glares at you for a moment before maxwell huffs an amused breath too.

 

“mutiny,” he mutters viciously. “mister jacobi, doctor maxwell, you are both traitors of the highest order. frankly, i am _appalled_ at the fact you both think it’s appropriate to-”

 

“sir,” maxwell says, “why the hell are we in texas?”

 

“mission,” he shrugs.

 

that’s news. he hadn’t mentioned a mission before, during the trip, the night, the days before- nothing. the bastard, that rat, that _absolute goddamn motherfu-_

 

“oh? what’s the mission?”

 

“simple- kill a rat. he’s visiting family but he’s staying in a motel- that’s no issue, is it, for either of you?”

 

“no, sir,” you both say. it can’t be. you aren’t allowed to argue back.

 

the guy probably has kids, a wife, parents, but you don’t care. you don’t give a damn, none of you do, which is why kepler likes you and maxwell so much. because you’re just like him, you’re similar in some ways and yet so _different_ in some that it’s jarring. jarring enough that people have asked him, before, why his team is made up of the two people simultaneously most and least likely to question his orders.

 

kepler had chuckled, leaning on his desk in the early evening air with an empty takeout coffee cup beside him and another in the trash can, three band-aids on his right wrist and he’d shot the woman who asked right between the eyes. you’d seen it, seen the blood and the mess. kepler had sniffed, finished his coffee and looked up at you before saying “fetch maxwell, go pack, we’re going for a drive. i got a ford this time.”

 

it had been two days ago. you aren't entirely certain what happened to the body, but she's definitely dead. you know that- you'd had her blood on your hand, on your fingers, because you'd touched the splatter in what might have been shock but just felt disconnected, disjointed. numb.

 

god, you should almost definitely be seeing a therapist. but you don’t, you just smile at kepler with the sort of chill in your eyes that he expects and for a moment he looks proud, before he bends to grab _his_ clothes from the suitcase.

 

“we’ll head to breakfast when i’m dressed,” he says. “i don’t know about you, but i’m starving. who’s up for ihop?”

 

kepler doesn’t seem like the kind of man who’s ever even heard of an ihop, which you and maxwell discuss while he’s in the shower. she’s firmly on “team kepler has no idea what anything modern is because he’s old and terrible” which she’d never bothered working out the acronym for (it’s “team KHNIWAMIBHOAT”). honestly, sometimes you’re totally with her, but he’d asked you about your twitter account the other day which had been equal parts horrifying and entertaining.

 

your twitter account, which is mostly you complaining about the government and how nobody wants to sleep with the only sober guy in a bar, is now followed by kepler, who’s got his own and, actually, you don’t dare follow him to see what he posts about. you... haven’t told maxwell, yet.

 

“so,” kepler says over breakfast. you frown at him with a mouthful of french toast, maxwell’s gaze still firmly on her pancakes. “we’ve got a mission. i’m going to shoot a man in the head, maxwell, you’re going to hack his computer and emails and jacobi… cover me. watch my back, yeah?”

 

“yes, sir,” you say, glowing a little as he nods, satisfied. maxwell kicks you under the table, an indication that someone’s looking at the three of you and you quickly train your eyes back on your breakfast, because kepler can’t lose attention if he tries. not that he _does_ try. you think he likes it, likes the way people look at him because, well, he’s an attractive guy, he’s strong, he’s-

 

“they stopped,” maxwell hisses. “let’s get out, though. don’t trust them not to say anything.”

 

“alright,” kepler sighs. “who’s up for some more travelling, hm? jacobi, you can do music again, i was enjoying it.”

 

you nod, sticking your tongue out at maxwell, always adamant that your taste in music is trash and that nobody likes it. then again, she’ll use the fact it’s kepler and the fact that the two of you have some weird codependency issues you should probably work through in her favour, claiming he’s only saying he liked it to keep you sweet.

 

then again, maxwell’s a rat bastard. she’s your best friend, even if she can be an ass.

 

* * *

 

kepler’s driving is decidedly not one of your favourite things about the man- he follows the _law_ , which is mostly just irritating- and he likes to play games. very, very long games that you regret ever teaching him, because it was clearly one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had.

 

“questions only?” he suggests. you turn the music up wordlessly and maxwell lets out a string of protests from the backseat, because she hates the game more than you ever have. it probably reminds her of something from her childhood that you’re not going to ask about- not because you don’t care, you do, but you just really don’t like the idea of childhood. plus, you’re ten percent sure on a good day that kepler never actually had a childhood, and you don’t want to upset him.

 

a half hour slips by in silence apart from the music. it’s getting uncomfortable- maxwell won’t talk because she’s got her notes open on her phone and her headphones on, so it’s really just you and kepler. kepler... who is focused on the road, and you’re getting fidgety when he eventually speaks again.

 

“stop that,” he mutters and you wonder what it is that you’ve been doing until you feel the sting in your wrist and see the scarlet scratch marks there, striped through by white and your skin colour.

 

“oh,” you breathe even though your chest feels tight and you’re not sure you really _are_ breathing, tugging your sleeve down. “i didn’t notice. uh, thanks, sir.”

 

“no problem,” he says, not looking over at you. you think, dare to think, that he might give a damn about you and whatever remnants of yourself that he’s ever seen.

 

you fall silent again, the two of you, maxwell muttering to herself in the backseat and you leaning your head against the cold glass of the window. your breath fogs it up, too hot for the glass even in the height of summer. it’s too hot, you think, but kepler doesn’t seem to mind it much- he seems almost at ease, comfortable in the heat. like it’s something that belongs to him.

 

“you know you can always say no when i offer you a drink, don’t you?” kepler says suddenly, breaking the silence as he turns off, heading right. you snort, tucking your head into your chest.

 

“yeah,” you say. “sure, i’ll keep it in mind.”

 

thing is, you’ve had the conversation before, _way_ before, on a car ride where there was blood drying on your knuckles and bruises blossoming on your jaw, lips kiss-bruised, tasting like regret and alcohol. kepler, the regret written across his face, pulling away and turning the key in the ignition. you’d had a boyfriend, you could feel the regret as soon as kepler had pressed his lips to yours.

 

you should probably talk about the kiss.

 

“sir,” you say. “i... about the- the thing-"

 

“mr jacobi,” he says. “not now. we can talk about that later. we’ve got work now.”

 

you suppose that’s the best you’ll get, right now.

* * *

 

the man didn’t even put up much of a fight as kepler put a bullet in his brain. there’s blood on the pillowcase, snow-white stained with scarlet, and it’s the sort of colour that you feel in your body before you pull a knife, slit someone’s throat or… whatever. whatever you use it for.

 

“good,” kepler says, nodding. “we’ve done well.”

 

you preen at the praise whereas maxwell just sniffs, but you know that she loves it, loves knowing that people respect her job. you just like the praise, the knowledge that _you’ve_ done something well, it makes you feel something warm in your chest. something hot, coiling, no matter who says it.

 

“good job,” kepler continues.

 

you suppose it is. you suppose it really is.

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'king of the road' by roger miller
> 
> hey! thank y'all for reading- this is my "i'm writing nothing canonically post-finale until i get over it" fic, so have some more si-5 crap that i'm not sure i'm entirely happy with, but i'm posting anyway
> 
> as ever, i'm on tumblr @sciencematter
> 
> (and no, i don't know what's happened to the formatting either)


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